


277 - Stuck in an Airport

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-13 20:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14755947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “van bumps into a girl in the airport and they just say each other ‘sorry’ and life goes on, but their flights got cancelled so van decides that he’s going to have a chá with the girl he had bumped earlier in the day.” from yelyawhoranMini request of Reader explaining memes to Van but he doesn’t get it.





	277 - Stuck in an Airport

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is set around 2014. I had to Google 2014 memes for you people. I hope you appreciate that seventh circle of hell visit. Also, due to the nature of the request, this is a dialogue-heavy fic.

He was your mirror reflection in more ways than one. There was the obvious stepping in the same direction as you, over and over. When he went to move around you to his right, you’d go to move around him to your left. Both moving east, you kept stepping from foot to foot in an attempt to move forward. Beyond that, you were dressed like twins too. Black boots and jeans, ripped at the knees. Your black denim jacket matched his black leather. Both were worn at the elbows and had seen better days. In fact, both you and the boy looked like you’d seen better days.

He had trenches under his eyes that told a story of sleeplessness. Shadows under yours existed in the same narrative. Tired and restless and really just needing to pee, he couldn’t form the words to stop the weird side-stepping thing that was happening in the corridor between the airport’s food court and public toilets.

“Fuck. Just. Sorry. Here,” you said, reaching out to stop him moving. With one hand on each of his arms, he went still, and you stepped around him. His blue eyes watched you move.

“Sorry,” he finally managed to spit out.

“All good,” you replied, waving him off. Heading to the food court, you got your phone out to check your bank account. Airport food has always been notoriously and unjustly overpriced.

Floating from option to option, you couldn’t decide what you were hungry for. There was no rush to decide, though; your flight had been delayed by an hour. That gave you plenty of time to decide between a boring, dry sandwich or disgustingly heavy box of noodles. Eventually, you found yourself staring up at the menu of a coffee and doughnut place. They were slinging out cups quickly, and the line moved too fast for you to make a decision. “You go,” you told the person behind you, then the person behind them. You’d just not had adequate sleep to power your brain enough to pick between a hot chocolate or a chai. And, did you want a doughnut? The Nutella ones liked mighty fine.

“Sorry, are you…?” a voice asked.

“Oh, sorry, no. You go,” you replied automatically.

The boy from the corridor with the tired blue eyes smiled as he stepped around you and began to order. He was getting tea and coffee and you wondered where his girlfriend was. 'Uh?’ your brain asked, calling out the assumption. Could be for a boyfriend. Or just a friend. Or his mum.

Another three people joined the line behind you, and you let them in front of you. By the time you got to the counter and stared at the girl asking you what you’d like, the boy had already collected his morning tea and disappeared into the airport crowd.

“You really look like you’re struggling,” the girl said, more concerned than joking.

“I don’t know what year it is,”

“Are you hungry?” she asked kindly, to which you nodded helplessly. “And coffee or non-coffee?”

“I don’t like coffee,”

“Alright. I got you. Just wait over there by the straws and sugar,” she told you, pointing just in case the verbal instructions weren’t enough.

“Than-No, wait, sorry. How much do I owe you?”

“That guy in the leather jacket tried to tip too much. Wouldn’t take it back either. Told me to pay it forward to you or whatever,”

“Oh,” was all you could say as you put your wallet back in your backpack, slung heavy over one shoulder.

“Yeah. Your lucky day… Won’t be a minute. Over by the straws and sugar.”

Thanking her, you waited and collected your chai, cheese twist, and blueberry danish. Not only was it free food, but it was good free food. You couldn’t work out if you wanted to marry leather jacket guy or coffee shop girl more. 

Walking from the food court to your gate, you pondered the two strangers and ate your two baked goods. Arriving at gate 26, you felt a little more with-it and coherent.

Your good mood was just in time for the bad news.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is an announcement for passengers flying delayed flight British Airways non-stop LAX to Heathrow. Due to technical risk assessment, this flight has been cancelled. Please proceed to gate 26 for refunds, re-bookings, and further information. We apologise for any inconvenience caused and we thank you for flying British Airways.”

The news hit the waiting area of gate 26 badly. Automatically, people stood and started to ask questions loudly and to nobody in particular. Then, a crowd formed around the desk and the two staff there were inundated with passive aggression.

“Fuck,” you said to yourself, then took another sip of the chai.

“You can say that again.” He had a drinks tray in one hand and his phone in the other. “It’s not like it’s the end of the world, but. You’d think it, the way that lot are acting. Oh, here we go. Next best option… is… ah… yeah… there’s a flight to JFK, then one to Heathrow from there. Reckon they’re gonna redirect everyone there. You should get on it before it sells out,” the guy in the leather jacket said as he read from his phone’s screen then glanced over at you.

Nodding, you looked around. You needed to sit. Multitasking was never your strong suit and when hot liquids were added to the equation, well, it could get dangerous. You motioned over to a wall with a bar bench and bar stools. The guy nodded and followed you. Mirroring each other again, you both took your backpacks off and stuffed them under your feet. Phones out, you both booked the next best flight. An email came through to you first with refund details. Five minutes later, he got one too.

“So, um, thanks for before,” you said to him when everything was sorted. He looked at you confused. “Your pay it forward. Free food,”

“Oh! Yeah. No worries, love,” he replied with a shrug, like being proactively a good human came easily to him.

“Can I ask why you have two drinks? I thought one was for someone else,”

“You thought about my drinks?” he asked quickly, a sly smile on his face. He laughed then, gently knocking your arm. “Nah. I needed some proper caffeine, but I like tea more. Why not have both, you know what I mean?”

“That’s a risk. Surely you’d need to pee on the flight?” you asked, deeply confused as to why anyone would want to take that risk.

“I would anyway… Wouldn’t you? How much water do you drink?” he asked like a mother would.

“Not a lot,”

“You should,”

“Thanks, Mum. But plane toilets are scary. And gross,” you continued, still mystified.

“I’m used to planes. Fly a lot for work. And I’m used to, like, them portaloos. Guess it’s different for a guy though, yeah? I just stand there. Don’t really gotta touch much,”

“Mmm, valid point…” you said, then mused on that for a moment. “I’ve just realised how weird it was for me to ask a stranger so much about peeing and toilets. Not really a pleasant time-killing conversation.”

The boy laughed and shrugged. “Keepin’ it interesting, aren’t ya? … What’s your name, by the way? I’m Van,” he said, holding his hand out to shake.

“Y/N. Nice to meet you,”

“Nice to meet you too, Y/N. So, what’s your plan then? Gonna wait for the flight here or…?” Van asked. There were four hours to kill; it was really too long to spend at an airport but not long enough to go anywhere else.

“Ah, yeah, probably. More out of laziness really. You?” you asked in reply. The spark of hope was felt under your skin and you told yourself to take a fucking chill pill.

“Hadn’t even thought 'bout it 'till I asked you, actually. If you’re just gonna hang around, might just shadow ya, if that’s alright?”

“Yeah, course. Not sure how exciting it will be to watch me paint my nails though,” you said, reaching for your backpack and digging through it for your black polish. Van laughed.

“Strange that you mention that, 'cause I actually really like watchin’ people do stuff like that. I don’t know why,” he said with a shrug.

“Want me to do yours first?”

Van’s face lit up with childlike glee. Almost immediately, he put both hands flat on the bench and nodded. “Go for it.”

As you started to paint Van’s nails, you took note of the length of them and how they were cut that way. “You’re a musician,” you announced.

“How’d you know that?!” Van squeaked, impressed.

“I’ve seen callouses like that before on my friends that are in bands and stuff. And your nails are a giveaway too,”

“Wow. Sherlock. Could’ve just been a super manicured guy,”

“Your messy hair tells me otherwise, my friend,” you said with a laugh.

Van nodded. “You’re real good, love. And you’re good at this too! Ain’t getting any on the sides at all!”

“Lots of practice, I guess. Spend a lot of time doing makeup and nails. Couple friends that work drag,” you told him, just making conversation and not filtering your replies. You were concentrating on keeping the colour in the lines since Van had made a point of the perfection of it.

“Drag? Like, ah, what’s that show called? And it’s a competition,”

“Yeah. Drag Race. Like that,”

“Their makeup looks like it takes forever, but!” Van said, the little squeak back in his voice.

You looked at him then, studied his smile for micro-expressions that might have given away any other intent than friendly. “You watch Drag Race?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral. Not too encouraging but not judgemental either.

“I don’t really watch much telly at all, actually. Don’t got the time for it. But I’ve seen that a bit, 'cause it’s on loads in the States and we’ve been touring here for a bit. Got a couple of friends that love it and they always put on old episodes when I go round for a drink, 'cause they say it’s funny to try to make me guess what, like, all the slang words mean, you know?”

“If I quizzed you now, would you know anything?” you asked him, switching from his right hand to left. He shrugged and smiled. “Alright… What does… 'spill the tea’ mean?”

“Oh! That’s when ya tell the truth 'bout something. But, like, they do it all sassy,” Van answered, shimmying his shoulders in a demonstration of sass. You laughed and nodded, and Van glowed with the approval. “Gimme another one,”

“Alright… Ah… Let me think… If someone, like, one of the contestants on the show, was 'serving fish,’ what would that mean?”

Van’s face was blanked, and his eyes focussed somewhere on the ceiling. He’d done that a few times and it was apparently his thinking face. You wouldn’t have been surprised if his tongue poked out just a little too, in pure concentration.

“Gimme a hint?” he asked.

“Okay. Uh… It’s about what they looked like. You could say, like, 'She is very fishy,’ whereas another drag queen might not be fishy at all,”

“I got no fuckin’ idea, but I’m gonna guess. It’d be, like, she’d be more girly? The drag queen, I mean,” Van ventured.

“Yes! Good guess. But now that I think about it, not hard to guess. Gross,” you said, screwing your face up.

“Yeah, I don’t even know where that whole thing comes from because any time I’ve had sex with a girl, I ain’t tasted fish or nothing,” Van offered matter-of-factly. You laughed hard. His honesty was endearing.

“Alright. Your nails are done,”

“I’d offer to do yours but I reckon I’d just fuck it up,” he said with a grin.

“I reckon you would too…” you agreed. Van nodded in acceptance. “So, was about to ask what other shows you watch, but you’re not into T.V.?”

“It’s not that I’m not into it. I just never seem to get a minute to sit down and watch anything. If I do, it feels a bit like a waste of time anyway. But I did always love a bit of Corrie,”

“What? Coronation Street? Are you kiddin’ me?”

“What?!” Van said, clearly offended. “It’s a true classic, it is! 'Sides, I fancy Kym Marsh,”

“Ah! Now we’re getting to the truth of it…” you replied, laughing. “Quick. You better tell me something cool before I get too embarrassed to sit near ya,”

“God, there isn’t anything cool about me, love. Sorry. I’m a dead simple lad. Like a cup of tea. A smoke. Fifa. Me dog. I don’t know,” Van said, his thinking face back. “I think music’s the only cool thing 'bout me really. Always had real good taste in music. Got that from my dad,”

“Yeah? Favourite bands then?”

As soon as Van started to talk, you knew he’d answered the question before. 

“The Streets. Definitely. When I was little, I wanted to be as good as Mike Skinner, you know what I mean? That man is a fuckin’ genius. And Alex Turner too. Always thought that if I can get my band to be half as good as his, well I’d be made. I like The Strokes too. But I like lots of stuff. Like, old stuff too. Like The Doors. And Van Morrison. And Oasis. I don’t know if they’re really classed as 'old’ but. And me dad took me to see Stereophonics one time and it was under the sky and I was up on his shoulders and it was just… Just huge, you know what I mean? So them too. For the memories,”

“While I totally approve of ya choices, I just have to say it…” you started. Van grinned in anticipation. “You’re so, so British.”

Van laughed and nodded. “I know. I’m a walkin’ cliché,”

“No! That’s not what I mean!” you quickly went to clarify. “It’s surprising, actually, that you aren’t. You’re somehow the exact kind of image of British boy loves British bands yet… totally… I don’t know. Something. Different,”

“You takin’ the piss or should I take that as a compliment?” Van asked.

“Compliment, I guess. Didn’t mean it as one. Just stating facts,”

“Statin’ facts,” Van repeated with a little chuckle. “I like that. Downplaying ya sweetness, huh?” He knocked his shoulder against yours. Shrugging, you turned away to hide what felt like a bright red blooming of blush on your cheeks. “So, what about you? What’s on your playlist?”

“Uh… City Calm Down-”

“What are they like?” Van interrupted. If he was going to do that for every band you said that he didn’t know, it could take a while. You prided yourself on finding new music that was yet to hit the big time.

“Um, think, like… The National… but a bit more upbeat, kinda, I guess. Not as good. Still good. I don’t know. They’re from Australia,”

“I feel like Australia are killin’ it right now,”

“Yeah. Same. Um… Oh, ah, there’s this British band that my friend is really obsessed with. I listened to a few songs the other day and they were good. They’re in that Strokes, Monkeys, Oasis type genre. Ah… Fuck. Got a real funny name though. Hold on,” you said, bending down to pick up your bag. Van waited patiently while you dug around for your iPod. “Right. Catfish and the Bottlemen. You heard of them?”

Van was watching you intently, a small smirk on his face. He opened his mouth like he was going to speak but then changed his mind, opting to sit up straight and smile. “Yeah, I have. NME hates 'em.”

You were suspicious of Van’s reaction. It was delayed and seemed calculated, which was incredibly unlike all his other responses. His smile, though, was as disarming as ever.

“Yeah, but NME worship some pretty fuckin’ overrated bands,”

“Yes! Like Foo Fighters!” Van said, clapping.

“Exactly. So, yeah, I don’t take much notice of what magazines and blogs and stuff say, you know? Just listen to what I like,”

“And you like Catfish?”

“Yeah. So far. Only heard a couple of songs. I got…” You read through the list on your iPod. “Hourglass. That’s my friend’s favourite. Says it makes her cry, but I ain’t ever actually seen that, so. Um. Cocoon. That’s on the radio sometimes too. Rango. And Kathleen. That’s my favourite one,”

“Why?” Van asked.

“Uh… You know when you hear a song and it makes you feel… like… that weird feeling in your stomach? Like… that you kinda wish the song was about you? 'Cause of the way they sing it and the words and like, the story, or something? I don’t know. Just… yeah,” you answered, shrugging. Truthfully, you’d not given it too much thought. Catfish and the Bottlemen were a very new band to you. To the world, though. Their debut album had only just come out.

“I get what you mean. When I listen to Lyla by Oasis it just blows me mind. He says in it, 'She’s the queen of all I’ve seen,’ and I know that feeling, you know what I mean? I know people that are just…” Van stopped, but not to plan his speech, more to think of the people he was speaking about. “Big. You know? Larger than life. Some songs are like that, hey? Just… Yeah,”

“Champagne Supernova is my favourite,”

“Mmm. 'Where were you while we were getting high?’ is genius too. But, ah, about Catfish… Funny that you should mention them, love,” Van said.

“Yeah? Why? Know 'em or something?”

“Or something… Um,” he said slowly. When Van grinned, his mouth opened wide enough that his canines were exposed for the funny little vampire fangs that they were. “I’m actually the singer? Like, ah, that’s my band.”

With no social script to help guide your actions, you just laughed. It was a brief sound that amused Van. You narrowed your eyes at him and shook your head. “Fuuuuuuck you,” you said sarcastically. Van grinned again. “Well. Um. You’re welcome,”

“Sorry! I’m sorry. Aw. Come 'ere,” he said, leaning across to hug you. You let him, and with him close you could smell his cologne, although it wouldn’t be surprising to discover it to be aerosol deodorant bought at the airport convenience store. Van seemed like the type. “Alright, but seriously,” he said, letting you go. “Stoked that you like us. Stoked that Kathleen makes ya feel something. If it makes you feel any better - it isn’t actually about anyone. S'not a real Kathleen or anythin’ so…”

It was a weird thing to say, really.

“Do you think there was a real Lyla?” you asked, deflecting.

“Good question. He said one time, joked or whatever, Noel said that Lyla’s Sally’s sister. Um. Sally from Don’t Look Back in Anger. So that means she probably wasn’t real,” Van answered.

“Mmm. Probably not. But, hey, that’s super cool… about your band and stuff. Like I said - I heard Cocoon on the radio. You’re like, a proper band,”

“I know!” Van squeaked. “Honestly, it blows my mind every single day… We’ve been graftin’ forever but it still feels so surreal. Dreams are coming true!” There was a notable difference in Van’s expressions and movements when he talked about his band versus talking about anything else.

“Well, I don’t know you, but I’m happy for you. You seem like you deserve it,”

“I do,” Van quickly replied. It made you laugh. “And, like, I say that and everything, but it’s not just me. I come across as a bit of a wanker sometimes, I know that. Think maybe NME think that, but it’s not just me. I want to make my dad proud, you know what I mean? Want my mum to have a nice house and want to look after my friends,”

“I reckon your mum and dad are pretty fucking proud of you already,”

“Hope so. I just wanna…” He stopped to think of what he wanted. The thing was that he’d already told you what he wanted. Everything else on the list, he had it. You wondered if you had ever met someone like him before; Van was sure of himself, within himself. It was easy to sit next to him and talk because of that.

“You just wanna be good at this?” you asked, taking a guess at the more eloquent version of his incoherent beautiful thoughts.

“Yes! Yes, love. See? You get me. You get me,”

“Well, you’re a bit of an open book,” you replied.

“Heart on my sleeve?” Van asked with a knowing smile that told you he was echoing what a million people had told him before.

“Heart on your sleeve,” you confirmed.

Heart on his sleeve. And what a fucking heart.

For a moment, you just looked at each other, watching, waiting. Behind you, there were still people complaining about the cancelled flight. There were still people hounding the staff. Announcements were being made and ignored. Luggage wheels. Children laughing.

Van sucked his bottom lip in, then looked away. He was trying to hide what was definitely a bright red blooming of blush on his cheeks.

The silence between you was comfortable, even then, after knowing each other for what was really only a matter of minutes. It was half an hour, maybe, that you’d been sitting side by side. Still, you needed something.

“Ah, so… are you and your band gonna do the Ice Bucket Challenge then? Since you’re all famous?” you asked, hoping to change the subject to a safer topic.

Van looked confused. He gave himself a second or two before asking, “What’s the ice bucket challenge?”

“What?” Really?! His expression was genuine, but surely… “Do you live under a rock?” Van shrugged. “Um… Well, it’s this thing people do to raise money for charity. Think it’s ALS. Get sponsored to pour a bucket of ice and water over you. Video it and put it online. Nominate people to do it. It’s reached almost meme levels at this point though. Lost its initial meaning, which is kinda sad…”

“Meme level?”

Absolutely not. There was no way an early-twenties dude in a cool band didn’t know what memes were. What planet was he living on?

“Memes… M. E. M. E. Like… on the internet?” you prompted. Van shook his head. “When there is a picture and everyone shares it? And it’s like, an in joke but instead of between friends it’s between the entire internet?”

“I honestly don’t got a clue what you’re talking about, love,”

“This is…” You dramatically ran your hands through your hair. Van laughed and shrugged again. “You really don’t know? Surely you’ve seen 'em though? You would have. Facebook and stuff. The standard kind of format is a picture then writing on the top and bottom in big white font,”

“Oh!” he called and clapped his hands together. “Yeah! Yeah. I know what you mean. I don’t really get most of them though. Thought maybe I wasn’t bright enough,”

“Mmm. Probably the opposite. They mostly don’t make sense. That’s the point,” you said. As you said it, you realised how confusing it sounded and how stupid memes seemed in theory.

“So why they funny then?” Van fairly asked.

“Uh… I… You know what? Good fucking question. But they are. Here, I’ll show you some.”

Van dragged his stool over to sit closer to you while you looked through some of your screenshots and saved photos.

“Alright, so this is Uncomfortable Situation Seal and it’s a picture of seal lookin’ uncomfortable and then it just says something about an uncomfortable situation that is super relatable, you know what I mean?” you explained.

Van looked at the picture. “’Waiter delivers food and says 'enjoy your meal.’ Says 'you too’ in response,’” he read out loud. You couldn’t help but make a little sound of laughter at the meme. Relatable. Van did nothing.

“No? Alright. What about… Oh, here. This one is about like… making mistakes that aren’t huge life ones but those little ones that still make you feel real embarrassed or annoyed or whatever,” you said.

“And it’s always a picture of this kid?” Van asked, looking at Minor Mistake Marvin.

“Yep,”

“'Preheats oven for dinner. Forgets to put dinner in.’ I’ve done that!” Van exclaimed.

“Exactly. And this kid’s face… it’s just… you know… relatable,”

“I get it now, I reckon. Show us another one.”

Van liked Kermit the Frog’s tea sipping, starter packs, and Business Baby. You showed him the viral videos you’d recently lost your shit to. Top of your list of best watches was the Apparently Kid. Van was suitably impressed by the best of the Selfie Olympics and vowed to use 'I came out to have a good time and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now’ in his everyday life.

“Oh, this one isn’t really a meme but here’s a mugshot of a dude that’s a massive babe and everyone is super in love with him,” you said, holding up the photo.

“What’s he got busted for?”

“Ah… I don’t know… I don’t want to judge based on appearance. But also, don’t a teardrop tattoo mean you’ve killed someone?”

Van laughed. “I think so but we probably got that from the movies, I’d say,” he guessed.

“Mmm. Probably. Anyway. Memes. That’s your education in them,”

“Well, thank you so much. I’m a changed man,”

“Changed for the worse. Memes are a plague on mankind. Honestly,” you said, locking your phone and sliding it across the bench.

“That seems dramatic,”

“You don’t know meme culture. It’s just gonna get more and more obscure, I bet. Anyway… How long have we been sitting here? I’m getting hungry again,”

“Ah,” Van started, pushing the sleeve of his button up shirt and jacket up to read his watch. “Yeah, nah. Been sittin’ here for an hour,”

“Three to go,” you replied.

“Counting down. Not enjoyin’ my company then?” Van asked, grinning. Before you could even begin to say anything in response, Van laughed and put his hand on your thigh. “Just messin’ with ya, love. I know ya like me,” he said. It made your heart skip a beat like somehow you’d been caught out. “Food sounds good but. Shall we go for a little walk?”

When you hopped off your stools and picked up stuff, Van tried and failed to carry your backpack for you three times. While you appreciated his manners, you didn’t romantisise chivalry. As you walked through the terminal and headed back towards the food court from whence you both came, Van started to talk about memes again. He told you about how his band and touring crew have a group chat where they share, what Van newly understood to be, memes. He attempted to describe one to you.

“Like, a picture of Bondy, and he’d be having a cigarette and you’d caption it 'thinkin’ about his whole life before he smokes it’ or whatever,”

“I’m not entirely sure you’ve grasped this abstract concept, Van,” you said, laughing.

“Ah well. What else are you an expert on then? I like listenin’ to you tell me stuff.”

You liked telling him stuff. Van listened when you spoke. He watched you and nodded and smiled and repeated phrases back at you at all the right times. Even walking, he’d look over and grin. You wondered if he did that on purpose, or if he was just born this attentive. Maybe it was a behaviour learnt in the process of becoming a musician; he had to listen carefully in meetings and interviews, and that was made easier by watching the speaker. However Van came to be Van, you liked him. You liked the idea of spending a couple more hours stuck in an airport with him.

In the food court, you parted ways then met back up at a table hidden away behind an unnecessarily large indoor plant. Van had opted for McDonald’s, which didn’t surprise you at all. Due to lack of better options more than a clear preference for, you bought Subway. 

It was strange. Both you and Van acted like you’d been friends forever, like you knew the routine of each other’s meals. Without asking, you helped yourself to Van’s fries. He didn’t react at all. When you said, “M&M or double chocolate?” he just glanced over at the cookies and grabbed the M&M.

“What’s the chance of our seats being next to each other on the flight?” Van asked, finishing the last of his post-mix Coke. He was swinging back in his chair and watching people go by.

“Two flights, remember. Guess that technically doubles the odds, but probably still super unlikely,” you replied, disappointed.

“So,” Van said, but stopped himself suddenly.

You waited for a couple seconds for him to continue, when he didn’t you said, “What?”

“Nothing, nothing. Sometimes I just go to talk, you know? Even when I don’t got nothing to say,” Van answered. You were unconvinced and raised your eyebrows at him. “Must really like the sound of my own voice, hey? Anyway. You done? Thought we could go check the magazines. See if we got a mention anywhere,”

“Okay but that seems super egotistical,” you agreed, standing up and collecting the rubbish in Van’s McDonald’s bag.

“What? No, it ain’t! As if you wouldn’t do the same if your band was getting buzz!”

For the remainder of your time in the airport, you and Van flicked through magazines, reading anything interesting out loud to each other. You wandered the aisles of convenience stores and duty-free places together. When you ran out of locations to prowl, you found your gate and sat down side by side. Van got his iPhone out and shared his headphones with you.

Once the boarding passes had been scanned, you and Van walked towards the plane. Seats on opposite ends of the cabin, you said goodbye to him. It really, really felt like a goodbye.

“See ya at JFK, yeah?” Van said, punctuating his sentence with what seemed to be his trademark goofy smile.

There was nothing you could do about how enthusiastically your head was nodding. “Yep.”

Only an hour into the flight you felt the terrifying, tingling sensation of needing to pee. Foreshadowed by your earlier conversation with Van, you weren’t surprised. As you walked to the toilet, you spotted Van. He was sitting next to a mother, her maybe-twelve-year-old, and a baby. Unlucky to most, Van seemed to be engaged in a deep and meaningful with the kid. By the end of the flight, he’d probably be the baby’s Godfather.

Walking through the gate at JFK, someone joined you at your side, slinging their arm around your shoulder.

“Thought you didn’t use the loos on planes?” Van asked in a mocking tone.

“Didn’t plan ahead. Had to babysit you, didn’t I?”

“Aw, love. Bit of a distraction am I?”

You just shook your head, trying to focus instead on walking naturally and in a way that wouldn’t discourage Van from keeping close. At first, it was unconscious, automatic. When you realised you were doing it, you felt a little embarrassed. Van was already chatting away about something, so he hadn’t noticed your blushing. Tuning in to him, you listened to him tell you about James and Baby Blue.

“The baby was named Blue?” you asked.

“Yeah. Bit weird, hey?”

“No, well, yeah, but I mean - Beyonce’s kid is named Blue. Do you reckon they named their kid after Beyonce’s kid?”

“Maybe they didn’t know,” Van offered.

“Everyone knows,” you countered.

“Uh, I didn’t,”

“You’re an exception to pretty much every rule though.”

Van laughed and seemed to like that conclusion. He never set out to be a sparkling, unique, shiny snowflake person, but fuck… it was exactly what he had become. That was easy to see, even for someone that had only known him for a matter of hours 

The stop-over was short; there was just enough time for coffee and for Van to complain a million times about how much he needed a smoke. Back at your gate, ready to board a flight straight to Heathrow, Van sighed.

“So, ah, when we get there, you ain’t gonna jump off the plane and run off without saying a proper goodbye, are ya?” Van asked.

“Oh, definitely. I’ve already ordered my taxi,”

“Ouch! Right in the heart! Right in the fuckin’ heart,” he joked, stabbing an invisible knife into his chest and holding it in pain.

Last smiles across the cabin, you took your seat. The flight was full and you recognised a lot of people from the cancellation announcement and subsequent crowd of bad feels. Van’s tall frame stood in the aisle for a while, helping people put their baggage in the overhead compartments. You tried not to watch but it was impossible. Every time he reached up, his shirt would move and his little belly would poke out. You didn’t even realise that you were chewing your lip until you bit down too hard.

The window seat next to you was occupied by a man with midnight skin and tortoiseshell glasses. He smiled politely when you sat down, but it was clear he was going to mind his business. Ideal, really. 

You were in the middle and although you knew the aisle seat would be occupied, you still hoped against hope it wouldn’t be. When a middle-aged woman wearing activewear sat down, you sighed quietly. The scene didn’t remain for long though; a few minutes after the woman sat down, one of the sharply dressed flight attendants appeared.

“Good afternoon, ma'am. I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’ve had a request from a passenger to swap seats. They normally select 12C but due to this morning’s cancellation, that option wasn’t available. He’s in an aisle seat close to the front of the cabin,” the flight attendant said. Part of you knew who the passenger was. The other part of you told you not to be so presumptuous.

“Oh, thank God!” the woman replied. She dipped her head low and got closer to the attendant, who had crouched down by her seat. “There is a baby behind us and I just know it will be a nightmare.”

As the woman in activewear let the attendant lead her away, you looked through the seats behind you. Indeed, there was a baby, but it was sleeping soundly and you suspected it would not really be a nightmare. Before you had looked away from the baby, someone new had plonked themselves into the newly-freed aisle seat.

When you looked at him, Van was holding back a smirk. He was doing his best to hide how pleased with himself he was. What a legend, you know? He was trying his hardest to not let on how Goddamn happy he was to be able to sit next to you for the flight. 

“What’s up, love?” Van said casually.

“Nothing. What’s up with you?”


End file.
